Thank you for stopping by to read my results for Monday's Muse Writing Prompt September 14th. To see the original prompt, click HERE. To see other Monday's Muse Prompts and give them a try yourself, please click HERE.
To Make A Moment
The pictures were old, foreign and yet somehow familiar even though he couldn’t quite place them. Somewhere hidden within his spirit he knew he had taken them.
Watching her turn away, the glassiness of disappointed tears flood her eyes, he forced the words from his lips. “I’m sorry.” He said, guarding his tone. They were both worn thin as thread bare linen flapping in a dry summer wind. He didn’t know who was worse off, himself for not being able to remember or her for being powerless to make him.
“I said that I am sorry.” He said, this time smoothing the crease from his gathered brow. “I am trying.” He wanted her to understand that even though her laboring with him had born no fruit. He hadn’t much cared before.
She took a sniffling breath and bobbed her head, a smile pressed against her lips, playing a losing game of tug-of-war with her sad frown. Tears flicked off of her lashes with each up and down dip of her head. He watched them flick, catching the sunlight before they flew off into their places to lay alone in solitude, evaporating into the same nothing that his memories had.
His fingers slowly traced the slightly puffy flesh against his temple. The mocking evidence of what happened. What had happened? That was the torment of his scar. The wound had healed, for what that was worth. He had awaken and yet he still didn’t know what was the source of its being.
He hadn’t even remembered his own name, had forgotten how to speak English, his tongue shrinking back into the safety of his childhood dialect before he and his family had come to the States some 30 years ago, he was told. She said he was 36. He did remember that much. He was now an American, but he didn’t remember much of anything else. He certainly didn’t remember her.
His heart gave a pained throb as the realization stabbed through him. She wasn’t frustrated because he couldn’t remember a taking old photos or that he couldn’t remember his birthday, or that he had to learn to speak to her again. She was hurt. Hurting and afraid because he couldn’t remember her.
As if he had hit the nail squarely upon its flat head, her watery eyes, framed in dark spiked lashes glanced at the scar that rested beneath his fingertips.
“Its alright.” She said, pulling her gaze away, her chin puckering and head still nodding as if in resignation. She slowly picked up each image from the table, looked at it, touched it with ginger fingers as if it were a sacred treasure, before carefully putting them away in a box. “Its alright.” She said again with a deep exhale.
She was resigning and for the first time within the year and half that he had struggled at her side, distrusted her every motive, her faithfulness to him, and love that he had hardened himself to receive from her, did he own his dreadful error.
Day in and day out he had managed in broken English to tell her, “If I don’t remember, if I don’t believe you, then there isn’t a reason for me to stay. I don’t want to stay.” Now that he saw in the reflection of her countenance that she was finished with trying to convince him otherwise, did his own heart break and somehow swell at the same time.
He didn’t remember much of anything. Didn’t remember this young woman who claimed to be his, but he did remember how a kiss could make a moment far more memorable than any photo taken.
So with tender strength he took hold of her, wrapped her in his arms, tipping her chin, he met his lips with hers as if for the first time, and as far as he was concerned it was indeed the first time. “I will keep trying,” He said before kissing her again, his lean muscles melting against her smoothness. “I promise.”
I wrote for 22 minutes, and I am so glad that I did. I feel like there could be more to this, more to their struggle and reaching to remember their love. But with all things, and all stories begging to be told in full, this one shall have to wait its turn.